


A Year Without Billy

by wildchildmonaghan (codenamemoony)



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Companion Piece, Monaboyd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6621166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamemoony/pseuds/wildchildmonaghan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to Lost Boy -- Dom's year without Billy. This is off the assumption (that I know is wrong, before I get yelled at) that 'Please Stay' by Beecake is about Dom. There will be a chapter that is Billy's POV, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Year Without Billy

The walk to his car and the drive home is hell, his heart breaking and he’s got the fight on loop in head, stuck on Billy’s broken little sounds, the way his voice cracked as he said he loved him. Somehow, the pain melts at that, replaced with the same anger that made him throw that picture and as he walks into his house, he furthers the damage to his cut up right hand by punching a hole in his own wall, the one in his front hall, screaming his rage as loud as he can. He spins and kicks at a chair, watching the leg pop off and clatter to the floor, grimly satisfied. Something else he’s broken, then. 

His hand hurts badly, but he doesn’t care, the events catching up to him and making his chest ache as he falls to his knees. He jokes often that he’s not a crier because he’s dead inside, but for this second? He’s horrified by the crippling pain. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe, his heart not beating and the lack of circulation forcing his lungs to give up, the wheezing sound a perfect mix of his struggle and the agony. His face is wet and it takes him too long to realize it’s tears, the salty misery winding down his face and soaking his cheeks. This is hell, he’s certain. Where else would he be in so much despair and so unable to go on? He isn’t weak, far from it, but now? Now he’s moments from dying.

He stumbles to his shower and gets the water on, clothes off and discarded in hopes it’ll lessen the crushing weight on his lungs, curling up on the floor of the cold tile, the scalding water raining down and drowning out his quiet sobs, the realization that he’s just well and truly lost the best part of his life hitting him and strangling him. He covers his face with his hands, the throbbing and pain ignored as he wails, letting himself do something he’s not done in a long time, the water going cold long before he’s done. Once he can’t sob or scream anymore, he lays there, soaked and cold, letting the jagged breaths rip open his lungs. 

It’s a few days later that he gets sick, sitting on the floor of the living room, hand wrapped with a shoddy patch job, and he wants to call him. He wants to call and complain, just to hear the fond chuckle, the soft edge of worry as he is scolded to watch for himself and take care. He feels ill in a different way when he knows he can’t, his fingers shaking from the fluey symptoms as he finds the number and deletes it, his soul going cold and empty as he does it. Now he won’t be tempted. Can’t ring a number you don’t know. It hurts so badly, so much more than he thought he could still feel, so he pushes through the cold to go to a club, dragging Elijah along and dancing with him. He’s all shifting hips and grabbing touches as the music plays, some young girl talking about loving herself and needing no one else. He wants to let that resonate, arms in the air and hips winding, drawing attention from the others around them, and Elijah draws him closer, whispering that he’s happy to love him. 

For the first time in four days, Dom can breath, even if it is just the scent of tequila and sweat and the soap Elijah uses. He can taste, even if its tobacco and booze and his blue eyed friend. He likes this, for a second. It’s not him, but Dom can’t go there, so he just presses closer and gasps into Elijah’s mouth, whimpering about how good he is, how beautiful.

It’s been seven days. One week. One week since the day the world stopped and he’s back to gasping for air and drowning in his misery when Viggo arrives. He’s as beautiful as ever, all long limbs, long hair and loving blue eyes, and Dom feels no shame weeping in his lap. He wants more, to see if he can chase that feeling he had with Elijah with Vig, but the handsome artist won’t let him in, stroking his hair and murmuring soothing words to help the ache before he announces he’s got something, something Dom won’t want but that he needs to hear. Something about the way he drives home the word  **need** makes him fold, accepting the device handed to him and hitting play. His eyes prick as he recognizes the voice in a heartbeat. It’s cruel of Viggo, he wants to snap. He wants to scream, but the song is drawing him in, his bloodshot blue eyes going wide and his golden skin paling as he stares at his friend. 

**_I love you so fully… I just can’t let you know._ **

The words are ingrained in his mind. It makes him mad, makes him want to break something else, so he takes up this boxing thing with Lij and Orly, throwing himself into pummeling the bags and when it’s called for, his friends. He’s careful to make up for it, in locker rooms or cars, and once in Orly’s front hall, the brief feeling of being wanted and cared for enough to keep him doing it. They love it, they call him such pretty names and the way they gasp and come undone under his ministrations is as close to heaven as a sinner like Dom will ever come. So why does he go to bed each night feeling so badly? 

It’s been three months and he’s taken to listening to the song daily, sometimes a few times and it’s started a new trend. He starts his morning by showering, dressing and grabbing a felt tip to scrawl three words into his palm as a reminder. 

**_I already knew._ **

People ask, and he can’t tell them. He just flashes that charming, crooked smile and says it’s a message.  _ For who,  _ they ask. He just smiles and says the person it’s for knows. He doesn’t add that they’d only know if they could see it, and they can’t. Because they don’t exist anymore, they can’t, not if Dom doesn’t want to drown again. It hurts… and he’s so tired of hurting.He’s tired of being so bone-weary and broken. There’s no cure, not the words on his hand or the nights he spends dancing along to loud music in crowded rooms with pretty people who coo about his eyes and smile. He’s trying, struggling to find a new normal, but this grief is overwhelming him, even all this time later, and he isn’t sure he’ll recover from this loss. His hands are in some beautiful green eyed man’s hair as they twist their bodies together when the song in the room changes and he’s frozen, heart hammering in pain as he let’s the voice of the ghost wash over him. He excuses himself and he feels bad, sort of. 

It’s been six months, and about a week ago, the pain came back with a vengeance. Dom forgets he followed him on social media and a bunch of videos pop up of Beecake, and he can’t  _ not  _ watch, hypnotized by the way Bill sways and leans on the microphone like it’s a lifeline as he croons, his accent making his words almost clumsy, and then he sees the ring is gone. He watches the video showing it six times, eyes on Bill’s hands the whole time, heart in his throat. Why is it missing? Why isn’t he wearing it? He asks Viggo, later, when they meet so Dom can pose for him, Viggo wanting new photos and the ideas he has are too crazy for a sane person, so naturally. Dominic. He’s sprawled on his stomach on the diving board, hands in the water and eyes thickly lined with a bright violet that makes his eyes look like pools of seawater when he gets it out and is greeted with the quiet apology that it’s not Vig’s place to say. 

Fine. 

Don’t say. 

Nine months have passed and he’s given up on finding comfort in strangers. They all smell so good and taste so sweet, but they take bits of him with them, because they are more ducktape than band aids, and it’s not really patching the holes so much as creating new ones as he wonders why he’s not enough. The Fellowship has been working on getting back in touch, and he’s told in three months, they will all be in the same place, but when no one mentions Bill, he’s not phased. It’ll be nice to be with the gang and not worry about the shadow that lurks in his dreams. He cuddles on the couch with Elijah, watching kids films as his friend pets his hair and talks about his show, the things he’s been doing. Dom listens, but barely, because this is a distraction and not something he’s honestly concerned with. It’s the same with Sean when he’s over, smiling and nodding and not paying mind.

They all know. Neither man has said a word, but they know they’ve not been speaking and they know it’s what has made Dominic so strange, so cold and different. He’s not himself without Billy, and it hurts the entire family to see this. So, they form a plan. A family dinner at Viggo’s, to reunite these lost boys and bring them back together. They set the bait, telling both men and leaving out the fact that the other is invited as well, Orly even  _ lying  _ to Bill. It’s for their own good, really. They are grieving a loss that shouldn’t be, and it’s got to stop.

It’s been a year. One year. Well, one year, a week and three days. Not that Dom keeps track of things like the last time he saw the other half of his soul.

He’s frozen as Viggo leads him in, leaving him there to see the ghost, the familiar eyes dark and shadowed as he stands there. They come to a stop before each other, and Dom’s heart is in his throat as Billy whispers.

“You promised.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He can feel them all watching, the way they listen and pray things are okay. His head drops as he whispers again.

“You deserved better.”

Billy smiles a sweet, sad smile and replies.

“That’s why you’re here.”

They embrace and in that moment, the pain is a memory fading fast. Billy is in his arms and he can smell the soap and shampoo and that toothpaste that tastes awful but Bill loves, the warmth of his chest to Dom’s putting the broken, jagged pieces back where they belong. Dom’s hair catches on Billy’s beard and he’s so happy for that tug, that when he turns his face, it’s pressed to warm, tanned skin and grey stubble and everything about his very soul  _ screams  _ in joy that he’s here, and he’s got him in his embrace and he’s never letting go.  _ Never.  _ Billy doesn’t seem to mind too much, hands moving over Dom’s back and the room erupting in cheers, friends calling that it is about fucking time, and the party shifts, becoming an actual party. They stay like that, burrowed together as the group meanders outside to the pool, and that’s when Billy sees the ink and points.

“‘S that say, Dommie?”

It sounds like ‘ _ S’that saeh, Dommeh? _ ’ and he wants to cry all over again because he missed how his name sounds out of Bill’s mouth. 

He holds out his palm, the words smeared from wiping at his face as he cries. 

**_I already knew._ **

He can see in Bill’s eyes he understands, and that’s what he wants. He wants him to know he knows he was stupid, that he knows the song and that it’s for him and that he loves him so dearly. Bill pulls him in again, lips to his ear as he whispers the song into it, making Dom melt. 

It’s been a long, hard, painful year, and now… now he can rebuild and go back to living. He’s whole again. He’s never going to let Billy leave again, ever. He can’t… he’s not sure he can come back from that ledge once more. They wander out to the others, Dom pulling off his shirt and kicking off his shoes so he can get in the water, leaning into Bill’s ear as he passses and whispers the words he’s been dying to say.

“I love you, too.”


End file.
